


The Long Road Home

by Misha Berry (MishaDerps)



Series: Contest Winners [10]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Big Brother Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Gen, Miscommunication, Pneumonia, Reconciliation, illness recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-03-31 23:54:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13986006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MishaDerps/pseuds/Misha%20Berry
Summary: As Tim begins to recover from his fight with pneumonia, he tries to leave the Manor, believing that there's no longer a place fo him at the Manor. Bruce disagrees, but he's not always the best at getting across his meaning.





	The Long Road Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meara/gifts).



> So this is a fic for the wonderful Bat-Gran, Meara, whom I adore and admire very much and who's [blog](https://meara-eldestofthemall.tumblr.com) has actually helped me with Blood in the Water at times. A wonderful, graceful queen of the Tim Drake fandom if there ever was one. I had a lot of fun writing this sequel to Whoopsie, and I hope you have as much fun reading it!

Recovering from pneumonia was no small task, even for someone with a strong immune system. For someone like Tim, who had no spleen and the added challenge of recovering from septicemia at the same time, it was a whole ordeal. Tim was looking at a possible several months worth of recovery, and that was being optimistic, both about his recovery and his ability to actually follow Alfred’s instructions and  _ rest _ .

For the most part, Tim did actually sleep, at least at first. He didn't have the energy to do much else. His body wouldn’t allow him to be up and doing anything for more than a few minutes before his energy drained out of him. As such, Tim slept away the first two weeks after he first regained lucid consciousness, only waking long enough to eat a little and take his medicine. It was only after three weeks had passed that he had enough energy to do more than sit up in bed.

Of course, Tim had always been the type to get and inch and make it into a mile, especially when it came to his own health. No sooner than he was given the okay to move around a little more did he start insisting that he could return to the Nest and take care of himself.

“Seriously, I’ll be fine,” Tim insisted, “I’ll rest and take my medicine and everything.”

“You can do all of those things here, but with the added benefit of having someone around to keep an eye on you,” Alfred said pointedly.

Tim was close to whining. “Really, I’ll be okay on my own,” he said, even as his breath caught and he started coughing, spitting up globs of phlegm.

“You will be better here,” Alfred said, gently pushing Tim back down onto the bed. “I should not like to imagine what might become of you if you relapse and no one is around to help.”

“I won’t relapse,” Tim said, even as he let Alfred tuck him back into bed (or rather, didn't resist Alfred tucking him in). “I’m getting better.”

“Yes you are,” Alfred sighed, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair out of Tim’s face. “Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

Tim grumbled, but he was already starting to drift back to sleep. Alfred refitted the nasal cannula over his face and tucked his comforter up to his chin, long since immune to the dirty looks given to him by disgruntled children.

“Get some sleep Master Tim,” Alfred said, “If you keep improving as you are, you’ll be back on the streets in a little over a month.”

“So long,” Tim complained, but he was already closing his eyes. Within a few seconds he was fast asleep.

Alfred sighed and finished adjusting Tim’s blankets. “Stubborn child,” he murmured. Sometimes he wondered what he’d done in life to deserve such frustrating children and grandchildren.

Leaving the boy to sleep, Alfred made his way downstairs. It was late, and everyone was preparing for patrol. Alfred picked up a tray of mugs filled with coffee, hot cocoa, and tea to bring down to the Cave.

Everyone was in uniform already, though only Damian had his mask on, eager as always to head into the night. Dick looked up at Alfred and smiled; he was much more relaxed since it seemed like Tim was on the mend.

“How’s our little sickie?” Dick asked, scooping up a mug of coffee from the tray.

“Stubborn,” Alfred said, “He seems to be under the impression he is well enough to return to his Nest and finish recovering on his own.”

“Sounds like him,” Steph said, snagging the eggplant coloured mug she’d brought to the Manor specifically for this purpose. “Always trying to go it alone like a  _ moron _ .”

“Like his father,” Cass said, looking pointedly at Bruce. She took her mug of tea from the tray and inhaled deeply, savouring the aroma.

Damian scoffed, but wisely said nothing, knowing he would only face disagreement at best and reprimand at worst. He busied himself with his cocoa instead.

Bruce sighed. “He’s always been very independent,” he said, frowning into his coffee. “He’s never taken well to being restricted.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little odd?” Dick suggested, “I mean, he’s only seventeen. Should he really be living on his own?”

“Well, it’s probably weird for him here,” Steph said, “He’s been living on his own for most of his life.”

Alfred put down the tray. “Indeed, the boy has had to learn to be independent out of sheer necessity,” he said.

“His parents were never around, and even when they were they were kinda crap,” Dick said, looking forlornly into his coffee.

“And after his dad died, didn't he live on his own for a while?” Steph said, “He made up that stuff about having an uncle and lived in Bludhaven for a few weeks.”

“And even after he was adopted, he only stayed here for a short time before…” Dick cut himself off, taking a sip of coffee. He hated to think about how Tim had felt forced to leave what should have been his home.

“And now he’s alone again,” Cass said, “No one to help him.”

A heavy, uncomfortable silence settled over the Cave. They all sipped their drinks, avoiding each other’s eyes, not wanting to acknowledge the various ways they had all screwed up when it came to Tim.

Damian huffed. “If he wants to live on his own, that should be his choice,” he said haughtily, “He is a grown adult and can make his own decisions.”

“He’s not, really,” Dick said, “He’s still just a teenager. A very smart and capable teenager, but still.”

“He should have someone to look after him,” Steph said, “I’m a year older than he is and I still live at home.”

“Loathe as I am to find any merit in Drake at all, I believe that says more about  _ your _ incapabilities than it does his, Fatgirl,” Damian said, grinning.

“Maybe I could stay with him?” Dick suggested, “I’m just sort of bouncing between the penthouse and the Manor right now.”

“I do not believe that would be very effective,” Alfred said, “Master Tim would benefit from a more structured environment. Continuing to live on his own will only foster feelings of being unwelcome here.”

“If you want my opinion, he  _ is _ unwelcome,” Damian piped up, becoming increasingly frustrated that no one seemed to be listening to him.

“He should be  _ home _ ,” Cass said, “Surrounded by his family.”

Bruce finally sighed and set down his half empty mug. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” he said. To end the conversation, Bruce pulled up his cowl and stalked to the Batmobile to begin patrol.

“Ten bucks says he fucks it up,” Steph said, finishing off her own coffee and pulling up her cowl.

“Sucker’s bet,” Cass said, smiling fondly, following Steph to her motorbike.

“Neither of you have any faith,” Dick said, taking Bruce’s discarded mug and drinking the last of the coffee in it, wincing at the bitterness.

“Are any of you listening to me?” Damian huffed, “I demand to be taken seriously!”

“Hm? What was that Dami?” Dick asked, finally looking down at his little brother, “You want another hot cocoa before you leave?”

Damian growled with indignation and stomped away in a huff, following Batman into the car.

“That was quite cruel, Master Dick,” Alfred said.

Dick shrugged. “I know he’s still learning, but he can stand to be taken down a peg once in a while. Not engaging with his bad behaviour will teach him eventually,” he said. He loved Damian, he really did, but the self-righteous little brat could test even his patience.

“We can only hope, I suppose,” Alfred said wistfully. Damian had made remarkable strides in the months working with Dick, but he still had a very long way to go.

 

* * *

 

True to his word, Bruce eventually did go and talk to Tim, but it took him three days rather than one. To his credit, there had been a minor scuffle at Blackgate that had kept him busy, although not  _ that _ busy. With no more excuses however, Bruce stood at Tim’s door, trying to tell himself he was only trying to make sure Tim was awake behind it. He didn't want to have to wake the boy up from his much needed rest.

Hearing shuffling from behind the door, Bruce sighed and finally gave up. He knocked and waited to be invited in.

“Just a sec!” Tim called, before a series of hacking, wet coughs followed. Bruce waited patiently before Tim was able to gasp out. “Come in!”

Bruce opened the door, finding his son laying down in bed, a book clutched in his hands. He was still pale with dark bags around his eyes, but he was looking much better than he had weeks ago. Bruce nearly melted with relief each time he saw him.

“What do you need?” Tim asked, and Bruce hid a wince.

“Can’t I just come to see how you're feeling?” Bruce asked.

Tim paused. “I suppose,” he said, like he was unsure. When was the last time Bruce had just spent time with Tim? No cases or rogues or disasters?

“What are you reading?” Bruce asked, coming towards the bed and sitting down. He felt something hard and rectangular under him and paused before he could settle his full weight.

Tim looked a little guilty, glancing at the book he was holding. “Um, something Alfred got for me from the library,” he said, even as Bruce pulled his laptop out from under the covers.

Bruce gave Tim a flat look, holding up the laptop. “Really?” he asked, “What’s the title?”

Tim huffed and sank down into his bed a little. “I was just checking in with Tam, seeing how the projects were doing. I’ve been out for over a month, I wanted to see if she needed help.”

Bruce sighed and set the laptop down on Tim’s nightstand. “Tam is an incredibly capable young woman. I’m sure she’d let you know if she needed you.”

“I know, but…” Tim trailed off, tossing his book away. “I’m just so bored. I need to do something.”

“You’ll be back to doing plenty in a few weeks,” Bruce said, “You need to let yourself heal. You nearly  _ died _ Tim.”

“I nearly die a lot,” Tim said, “That’s just the job.”

Bruce grumbled, not pleased with the idea, but knowing he couldn't really dispute it. They risked their lives a lot, and hardly a week went by without one of them having a ‘nearly’ moment. Nearly getting shot, nearly getting blown up, nearly getting their head cut off. Their’s was a dangerous world, but Tim seemed determined to make it even harder on himself by taking it on alone.

Not that Bruce had really done his best to show Tim he was welcome in the last few months, but he was here to fix that.

“Tim, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” Bruce said, scooting up the bed a little.

Tim looked up at him expectantly. His eyes were bright and clear, though tired. Bruce tried to pick the right words to say.

“I think you should move back into the Manor,” Bruce said, deciding it was just better to be direct.

Tim blinked in confusion. “I  _ just _ got the Nest set up. I thought you didn’t mind that I took over the old theatre?” he said, his mind going over the potential reasons Bruce might not want him to live at the Nest.

“It’s not that Tim,” Bruce said, “I just think you should live here for longer.”

“Why?” Tim asked, trying to sit up a little more. “Is this about me getting sick? I came here right away.”

“Because I called Alfred to come pick you up at work,” Bruce pointed out, “I don’t think you should live on your own Tim. It’s dangerous.”

“Dick lives alone,” Tim said, and Bruce could see the boy start to get defensive.

“Dick’s in his twenties and he barely lives at his place,” Bruce said, “You’re seventeen Tim. You should stay at the Manor.”

Tim’s shoulders began to tense and his lips pressed together. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself Bruce. This was just a fluke,” he said, gesturing to the oxygen machine on the other side of the bed. “I’ve been taking care of myself for ages now. I don't need you taking care of me.”

Bruce’s mind caught and stumbled over the words  _ ‘I don’t need you’ _ , each syllable cutting into him like a knife. “You  _ shouldn’t _ be taking care of yourself Tim,” he said, unable to push the rest of the sentence out.  _ I want to take care of you. I want you to live with the people who love you. _

Tim flinched, and Bruce knew he’d really stepped in it this time, but it was like watching a cup fall in slow motion. He couldn't grab it in time to save it. Bruce could practically see Tim’s walls go up as he pulled away from Bruce.

“I’m tired,” Tim said quietly, his voice cracking ever so slightly. “I’d like to get some sleep now.”

Bruce wanted to fix it, he wanted to say what he really meant, but the words wouldn't come out. “Alright,” he said, standing up from the bed and readjusting the covers around Tim.

Tim turned his back to Bruce and pulled the covers up over his shoulder. Bruce could hear Tim’s lungs strain from the position, but he didn't say anything. Quietly, Bruce left Tim alone in his room, internally berating himself for screwing up so badly.

 

* * *

 

Tim had to leave.

It wasn’t as though he  _ wanted _ to leave necessarily, it was just that he knew he had to. Tim had his own place in the city, so there was no reason for him to stay at the Manor. In fact, there were several reasons for him to leave. The Manor was certainly big enough to accommodate him and many others, but he didn't want to put Alfred to the trouble of having to pick up after him as well as everyone else. More than that, Bruce and Damian were still getting used to each other, and they certainly didn't need Tim getting underfoot. Whatever he thought of the little demon, Damian deserved to have a relationship with his dad, and having Tim around as a distraction for Bruce wasn't going to do him any favours.

And of course, Tim had to prove to Bruce that he was capable of taking care of himself.

Hearing that Bruce didn't trust Tim to look after himself had hurt worse than the ever present whistle in his lungs from the last month. Bruce had to know that Tim was trying, didn't he? Tim had run across the world searching for him,  _ knowing _ he was out there and doing everything he could to bring him back. Dick, the Justice League, and nearly everyone else had believed that Bruce was dead, but Tim knew better. He’d done more than know, he’d  _ proven _ he was right (even resisted the urge to throw it in everyone’s faces), and even been instrumental in bringing Bruce back. That should have gained him a modicum of trustworthiness, shouldn’t it?

It didn’t matter, Tim decided, because it apparently hadn’t and Tim was just going to have to live with that. Maybe whatever Dick had seen in Tim to make him toss him out had been communicated to Bruce somehow, but that was alright. Tim knew how to take care of himself, he just had to prove it.

This in mind, Tim planned his escape for early in the morning, long after everyone had returned and gone to sleep. Even Alfred was in his bed. Tim carefully removed the machines from his person and packed up the few belongings that had migrated to the Manor over the month of him staying there. Slowly, Tim made his way downstairs to the garage where his car was parked. The keys were in the glove compartment, so Tim wasted no time in driving away, leaving the Manor to sleep into the morning.

When Tim arrived at the Nest, the air inside was still, almost stuffy. No one had been inside since Alfred had been by a few weeks ago to pick up some of his things for him and tidy up. The whole place felt cold and still, like some kind of tomb, but Tim shook off his discomfort. He was exhausted from just the drive and he wanted to crawl into his bed.

Tim’s bed was made and the sheets were clean, no doubt Alfred’s doing. Tim pulled the bedding around him and tried to put his bruised pride out of his mind, but it took him a long time to fall asleep. The neverending silence that permeated the Nest unnerved him and he couldn't make himself comfortable. He’d become too used to the pervading background noise of the Manor, and having the quiet around him now felt out of place.

With a groan, Tim ignored the silence around him and eventually fought his way into unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

Bruce awoke suddenly the next morning, jolting from sleep in an instant. It took him a moment to comprehend what had woken him so harshly, but the sight of Alfred standing at his bedside, Bruce’s sheets in one hand and the other on his hip, gave him a pretty good idea.

“Alfred?” Bruce grumbled sleepily, sitting up. “What’s wrong?”

“Master Timothy has vanished,” Alfred said, “Sometime last night.”

Bruce was suddenly  _ completely _ awake. “What? What happened? Did someone break in?”

“It appears to have been a break _ out _ , sir,” Alfred said, voice unusually cold and acidic. “He simply packed a bag and left in the night.”

“Dammit,” Bruce swore, swinging his legs out of bed. “Do we have any idea where he went?”

“I’d imagine he returned to his townhouse,” Alfred said, “Though I suspect he was prompted by some ill-thought of words.”

Bruce groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You can berate me later Alfred, after I bring him home.”

“Yes, it would be prudent to bring our wayward bird back to roost as soon as possible,” Alfred said, fixing the sheets on Bruce’s bed.

Bruce dressed as fast as he could and headed downstairs. He made his way down to the garage quickly, but nearly ran into Damian at the bottom of the stairs.

“You’re up early Father,” Damian said, “Come train with me.”

“Not now Damian,” Bruce said, ignoring Damian’s phrasing. Damian’s demands had always been followed, so he’d never learned how to make requests or say please. He was learning to be more polite, but it was going slowly. Bruce cursed Talia for more than just the scars littering Damian’s skin.

“You’re going out,” Damian observed, “Why? You don't work today.”

“Tim went out last night, I have to go get him,” Bruce said.

Damian grumbled. “If Drake wants to live on his own, I see no reason not to let him. He does not belong here.”

“Tim belongs here as much as anyone else in this house Damian,” Bruce said, getting a little frustrated with Damian. “He’s a part of this family.”

“He’s not even your blood son!” Damian cried, “ _ I _ am! Why do you continue to waste your time!?”

“Enough!” Bruce shouted, “Blood has  _ nothing _ to do with family!”

Damian jolted, as thought Bruce had just slapped him. A half second passed and Damian’s face went stony. Before Bruce could say anything else, Damian turned and stomped away. With a groan, Bruce put it out of his mind for now. He had to get to Tim and bring him home.

 

* * *

 

Pulling up to Tim’s Nest was always a little surreal. It threw Bruce to see the old theatre, the last place he and his parents had been together that cold night so many years ago. The building had been left with most of its original facade on the outside, though it had been cleaned and repaired, giving it an almost regal appearance, like a young prince. In a way, it suited Tim very much.

Tim was fast asleep in his bed when Bruce found him, his breath shallow and fast, and his fever several degrees warmer than it had been the day before. Moving himself from the Manor to the Nest in late November had done Tim no favours, and the cold of whole apartment was only going to make things even worse. Bruce quickly bundled Tim up in his blankets and started to bring him back down to the car.

Tim stirred in his arms as they reached the stairs. “Bruce?” he rasped, “What—?”

“I’m taking you home Tim,” Bruce said, voice quiet but firm. “And you're going to  _ stay _ there until you get better.”

Tim whined and shivered, trying to struggle. “I’m fine. You don't have to worry about me. I know I messed up,” he said.

“Messed up?” Bruce asked, looking down at Tim in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Dick saw it too,” Tim rambled, his fever-addled brain making him delirious. “It’s okay. It’s fine. I’m used to it. I’m fine on my own. I’ll live.”

Bruce didn't bother hiding his concerned expression. “That’s enough now,” he said, “Just sleep Tim.”

Tim whimpered and mumbled something about his parents, then dropped off to sleep again. Bruce held Tim tighter to his chest and wondered where he’d gone wrong. Tim had always been so independent and self-sufficient that it was hard to tell what he needed, but that was really only an excuse that Bruce had used to avoid taking the proper time to help Tim. That sort of laziness could no longer work; Bruce was Tim’s father now, and he needed to do better by him.

Determination setting in, Bruce settled Tim into the car and buckled him in. The road would be long and filled with landmines of unresolved issues, but Bruce would rather die all over again than have his son,  _ his son _ , feel unloved for another moment.

 

* * *

 

Alfred was less than pleased with Tim’s condition when Bruce got him back to the Manor. They quickly put Tim back into bed and only just stopped short of restraining him to it.

“He might have set his recovery back weeks with this little stunt,” Alfred said, adjusting the thermostat in the room. “He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t relapse completely.”

Bruce remembered the absolute terror he’d felt when the alarms sounded and he’d nearly watched Tim die. They’d all been so tense and scared for days after that, until Damian had found out Tim’s secret and probably saved his life. The idea that Tim could relapse, could nearly die in front of him yet again, made Bruce shiver.

Speaking of Damian, that was another thing he had to deal with today. Damian came off as arrogant and unaffected, but he was still a child and, as Dick was so fond of saying, practically  _ bled _ the need to be accepted. Bruce would need to talk to him soon, before he did something reckless to try and prove himself to Bruce.

With Tim all tucked back into bed, Bruce finally made his way down to the kitchen to get some coffee. Dick was awake and helping himself to a bowl of cereal when Bruce came in.

“Heard the commotion,” Dick said, “Tim okay?”

“His fever’s spiked and he’ll be lucky if he doesn’t relapse,” Bruce grumbled, pouring himself some coffee. “What the hell was he thinking?”

Dick watched Bruce scowl into his mug for a minute. “Do you want to talk to him or should I try?” he asked.

Bruce sighed. “Maybe you should talk to him. I already made things worse,” he said.

“Great, then you can talk to Damian. He’s downstairs beating the shit out of the training equipment,” Dick said.

At Bruce’s glare, Dick pointed at him with his spoon. “Don’t give me that look, I can only put out one of your fires per day. Plus,” Dick frowned and twirled his spoon, “I really need to talk to Tim anyway.”

They lapsed into silence, each stewing in their own mistakes. Bruce sighed again and rubbed his eyes. “We both screwed up, didn’t we?”

Dick shrugged. “You’ve been busy since you got back from the dead,” he said, “I was the one who kicked him out in the first place.”

“You did what you thought was best,” Bruce said, “For Damian.”

“Yeah, but Tim paid the price,” Dick said, “I should have been more supportive of him. I should have believed him. We’re always saying he’s the smart one, I should have listened to him.”

“There was no way for you to have known,” Bruce said quietly.

“Tim knew,” Dick said, “He knew and he was right, but I didn’t believe him and now he thinks he doesn’t belong in his own home anymore.”

Dick tensed and hunched in on himself the more he talked. Bruce, unsure of what to say, placed a hand on Dick’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. Dick sighed and relaxed a fraction, but his face remained sad and tired. Bruce’s disappearance had been rough on everyone, but especially Dick and Tim and their relationship. Bruce wished he could go back in time and stop it all before it happened, but he knew that wasn’t an option. All he could do was try and fix things in the present.

“I’ll go talk to Damian,” Bruce said, “Tim should be up in a few hours.”

Dick nodded and Bruce gave his shoulder a final squeeze before he finished his coffee. Bruce took a deep breath and made his way downstairs. He had to talk to his youngest son.

 

* * *

 

Damian had trashed a good portion of the training equipment by the time Bruce got down to the Cave. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed or replaced, but it was still an impressive amount of damage. Bruce watched Damian carve up a dummy with his katana for a few minutes before he made his way to the sparring mats.

“Damian,” he called, “Let’s work on your kicks today.”

Damian looked over at Bruce, eyes cold and closed off, unreadable. He clenched his hand around his katana a few times before he put it back in its sheath. Setting it down at the edge of the training area, Damian joined his father on the sparring mats. Bruce dropped into a stance and waited for Damian to make the first move.

Damian was vicious, as he always was, but Bruce had come to expect that. Damian had been taught by the League of Assassins in nearly every way to kill a person, and that kind of indoctrination would take years, decades maybe, to reverse. Dick had done a good job with him so far, but Bruce knew he needed to take the reigns and try to get through to his youngest son.

“You’re leaving your defenses open,” Bruce said, careful to keep an eye on Damian’s feet as he moved.

Damian growled and increased his attacks, leaving his defenses in even more dire straits. ‘Offense was the best defense’ was apparently something the League swore by. Bruce finally got fed up with Damian’s shoddy defenses and easily knocked him flat on his back, careful not to hurt him. Damian grunted as he landed, taking a moment to catch his breath.

Bruce stood over him and held his hand out for Damian to take. “You need to learn to defend yourself as you attack. You’re going to get hurt one day if you don’t.”

Damian glared up at Bruce for a moment before getting to his feet, ignoring the hand. Bruce sighed and watched Damian pick up his katana to start tearing at the dummies again.

“Damian,” Bruce called. Damian stopped and looked back at him; Bruce gestured to the benches on the edge of the training area. Damian huffed once, looking away, but not continuing to the dummies. Bruce sat down on the bench and waited for his son to join him. After a few moments, Damian stomped over and sat down on the opposite side of the bench, still holding his katana.

Bruce waited for a few minutes, trying to figure out what to say. He’d never done well with words, but he knew that he had to do his best to make Damian understand.

“Damian, about what I said this morning,” Bruce started, “I want to clarify what I meant.”

Damian said nothing, keeping his arms crossed and his body tense. Bruce wished he was better at this, for his children’s sake. “It’s not that you being my blood son doesn't matter Damian, you  _ are _ my son, and nothing changes that,” he said, “But Tim, Dick, Cass, they’re my children as much as you are, blood related or not. Them being my children takes nothing from you Damian.”

Something softened in Damian slightly, but he didn't look at Bruce. Bruce bit the bullet and scooted closer to Damian, putting his hand on Damian’s shoulder and pulling him to his side. “You’re  _ all _ part of my family. You’re all my children and I…”  _ say it coward _ , he thought “I love all of you equally.”

Damian stayed tense for a while, but soon he dropped the katana and leaned into Bruce’s side. Bruce let out a breath and tried to keep himself relaxed. He could do this, he  _ had _ to do this, he needed to be better for his children, all of his children.

 

* * *

 

Tim woke up slowly, feeling like he was trying to swim upwards through mud. The room was warm and his blankets were heavy. It almost seemed like the better option was to just go back to sleep, but Tim could tell that something was wrong and he needed to wake up and figure out what it was.

“Tim?” came a voice, “You awake?”

“Dick?” Tim rasped softly, trying to pull himself into full awareness. “Why are you in my apartment?”

“I’m not in your apartment Tim,” Dick said, reaching out to stroke Tim’s hair. “We’re home in the Manor.”

Tim opened his eyes more fully and took another look around, realizing that he was indeed back in his old room. Dick was laying beside him on the bed. “How did I get here? I thought I went home?” Tim asked.

“You did,” Dick said, “Bruce went and brought you back. What were you thinking Tim? You could have relapsed.”

Tim groaned and shifted around on the bed, making like he might try to get up. “I’m fine on my own,” he said.

“Clearly,” Dick said in a slightly acidic tone.

“What do you even care?” Tim snapped, turning away from Dick.

Dick went quiet for a minute, and Tim felt a little bad for snapping. He was about to apologize when Dick spoke softly. “I probably deserved that.”

Tim turned back to Dick, surprised. “I haven’t been a good brother to you, Tim,” Dick said, “I practically forced you out when I chose Damian. I’m really sorry Tim.”

Tim watched Dick for a moment. “Thank you for saying that,” he said quietly. He didn’t really forgive Dick, not completely, not yet, but he did appreciate the acknowledgement. It had been so hard for him to have to leave, and Dick realizing that he’d made a mistake actually made Tim feel a little better.

They lapsed into silence for some time, not sure where to take the conversation from there. Dick resumed stroking Tim’s hair gently and Tim nearly nodded off again.

“We want you to come home Tim,” Dick said quietly.

“I am home,” Tim answered. He’d returned to Gotham after what felt like decades, finding almost everything changed and in a state of chaos. By the time the dust had settled, Tim had found little room for him in his old place, and so he had to carve out his own place somewhere else. It was fine, he could manage.

“Home at the  _ Manor _ ,” Dick clarified, “You should be with us, all of us.”

“I can take care of myself,” Tim said, “You don't need to worry about me.”

Dick sat up a little and looked down at Tim sadly. “We  _ want _ to worry about you Tim. You  _ deserve _ to be taken care of.”

Tim looked up at Dick, as though shocked by the sentiment. Dick sighed and laid back down next to Tim, laying an arm over him, careful not to lay too much weight over his chest. Tim let him do it, not struggling or protesting or trying to push Dick away. How long had it been since they’d been together like this? It really hadn’t been that long, only a few months really, but it felt like years since they’d been close. So much had changed in such a short amount of time and Tim was still reeling from everything.

“Come home Tim,” Dick whispered softly. “You don't have to do this alone. You can let us take care of you.”

Tim let out a long sigh, feeling like he was releasing a huge weight as he did so, sinking into his bed and into Dick’s arms more naturally as he did. “Alright,” he breathed.

Dick pulled Tim closer to him, breathing a short sigh of relief. Tim turned and curled into his older brother, trying to forget all the nasty, unspoken emotions that lingered between them. There would be time later, Tim decided. If he was moving back to the Manor then there would be plenty of time to talk about everything that happened. For now, Tim allowed himself the luxury of his brother’s company as he drifted off back to sleep.

Some time later, Tim awoke again in a haze. Dick was still sleeping next to him, his breath tickling against Tim’s ear. Tim noticed that Bruce had joined them, sitting next to them on the bed, reading quietly from a book. He looked over as Tim stirred, his eyes going sad. Bruce put his book down on his knee and reached his free hand out to gently stroke Tim’s face, his calloused fingers scraping roughly across Tim’s cheek.

Tim sighed and leaned into Bruce’s hand, closing his eyes and just letting himself feel his father’s gentle, caring touch. Tim had been carrying himself for so long, for so far, and he was so tired. Now though, he had two of the most important people in his life practically begging him to let them help him carry the weight. Would it be so bad if he let them?

Slowly, Tim drifted back to sleep, letting the presence of his brother and his father soothe him into relaxation. Around him the house creaked and groaned with age, and in the hall Tim could hear Alfred walking up and down the hall, stopping to check on them periodically. There was also the quiet hum of the oxygen machine next to the bed, steady and constant, even comforting. Tim had no trouble letting the symphonious lullabye of his surroundings and the warmth of his family put him right to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to win a commission, head on over to my main fic and pay attention to updates.


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